


Refractions

by GuileandGall



Series: Dig Til You Hit Daylight [1]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Breathplay, Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 04:50:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,970
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7300261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GuileandGall/pseuds/GuileandGall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Aratoht leaves Shepard reeling, physically and mentally. Surviving the suicide mission through the Omega Relay, the former soldier is left with a choice to make. Does she answer the Alliance’s call that Hackett warned her was coming?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Refractions

**Author's Note:**

> This was written for the 2016 Mass Effect Big Bang, I was partnered with an incredible artist--bloomingcnidarians. Her art is included with the text.
> 
> This pairing and their story has been teasing my brain for a few years now. I took this opportunity to set their story in motion. Also, I liberally wield a canon squeegee. 
> 
> I’d also like to thank my Betas once again—Nephthys & LadyAmesIndy—both of them were such amazing resources for making this piece so much better. Their insights, suggestions, and guidance were invaluable to me. Thank you both again so very much. Also, special thanks to TwistedSinews for doing a final beta for me on no notice, and being an awesome grammarian and so incredibly helpful—thank you for saving me from inconsistencies and repetitions I missed. You are all amazing.

 

 **Dedication:** I’m not usually one to do things like this but I have to add an additional line here to thank LadyA an additional time. Without her encouragement, this likely never would have happened. She has put up with long involved rants about Feign, James, and the way their relationship develops, devolves, and grows. She truly is the reason this has finally gotten written. Thank you so much for letting me ramble and for not getting fed up with years (and I do mean) years of me mumbling about these two before ever having put something substantial down on paper.

**-1-**

The computer system of the science complex was magnanimous in its helpfulness, having alerted security, and anyone else taking the same evacuation route, that someone else would be joining them on their attempt to escape the collision of the asteroid into the mass relay. Though, it could also have been something else that prompted security and civilian personnel alike to take aim at Feign Shepard with whatever weapons they could get their hands on. Of course, it was not the infiltrator’s first rodeo, or hostage situation, and she should have expected their response even if their leader was dead now and their project was coming to fruition despite their indoctrinated desire to allow the Reapers to reach the Alpha Relay and scatter through the galaxy like cockroaches.

Dr. Amanda Kenson fooled Admiral Hackett, and she was dangerous. The entire population of Project Base seemed to have been indoctrinated. In hindsight, Shepard should have known a lot of things, expected the betrayal, the ambush. She should have listened to that little voice in her head that told her something was off about Kenson, from the way she acted at Aratoht to the careful communication with her own staff over the shuttle radio, but Feign kept remembering what Hackett told her. She chalked it up to shock, not maliciousness. And she had been wrong—wrong enough to put her friends, her ship, herself, and the rest of the galaxy at risk.

It left Shepard rushing to try and put it all right again, if there could be such a thing in a situation like this. If her past told her anything, there was nothing that could put a situation like this right. If she had been expecting it, maybe the batarians on Aratoht would not be the ones paying for her fuck up. There could have been time to get them evacuated to safety, or at least anywhere but here. It was not the first time Feign Shepard sacrificed people, even civilians, for a mission objective, but that never made it easy. Then again, she would never want that kind of decision to come easily to her.

As the asteroid sped toward the Alpha Relay, anyone in the facility that could wield a weapon against her had done so—man and machine alike. There had been a moment where some of the project base staff seemed more concerned with escape and survival, at least until that became Shepard’s intent as well. Feign Shepard could not save them, just like she could not save the souls on Aratoht. So she pushed forward, resigning herself to her choice far too easily for her own tastes as she moved toward the more attainable goal of hailing the _Normandy_ and getting word back to the Alliance and the Citadel. Reaper indoctrination guaranteed the fate of the base staff and of the facility long before she arrived on the asteroid, before they ambushed her, before they drugged her and left her to rot in a half-sterile medical lab in order to give their masters access to the relay and the Milky Way Galaxy.

Shepard intended to get off that rock and deliver the intelligence she gathered to the Alliance. It would not assuage the choices she made, it would not keep the nightmares nor the doubt at bay, but it was necessary. It was what had to be done. That kept her pushing forward.

There were signs of the asteroid’s movement and momentum here and there, mainly in the viewports and windows, and occasionally bolstered by the helpful computer countdown that chimed reminders about the impending arrival. As Feign Shepard sprinted through the complex, heeding the facility AI’s directions to the evacuation shuttles, everything—outside of her own breathing, which echoed in her helmet, and her heavy footfalls ringing off the dismal deck—remained still and silent … dead. That all changed the moment the hatch to the airlock opened. Wind screamed into the small corridor, throwing her back against the standard-issue beige bulkhead with enough force to make her grunt with the discomfort of the impact. It whipped and whirled, at one moment slamming her into the wall again as she tried to exit, and the next pushing out onto the deck and into enemy fire, which consisted of mostly pistol and rifles rounds from the sounds of the shots that rang off the flat, hard surfaces of the deck, walls, and tunnels created by stacks of supply crates.

Stumbling toward cover, she regained her balance as her suit’s warning systems blared in her ears, like an electronic lecture for being where she should not have been. As a dose of omni-gel flowed into her system, she took a moment for her shields to recharge. In the meantime, Feign did not notice the view, not in the traditional or tourist sense; she might have found it beautiful if not for everything else—hails of gunfire, a Reaper device downstairs, the indoctrinated researchers all gunning for her—the mass relay loomed large just past the horizon and glowed in a stunning eeriness, like a beacon, a reminder of just what must be done, what was at stake. After all, that was the gateway to the rest of the galaxy—to Earth, to the Citadel, to every other Council and unaligned world.

Shepard popped out of cover to return fire at one of the humans pinning her down; scientist or security, after her round hit home the distinction no longer mattered. The sight and announcement of the last shuttle departing the asteroid gave her pause, at least until another shot cracked her shield, the shattering sound filled her ears and forced her back behind cover. A few taps on her omnitool and her cloak went up, allowing the woman of Amazonian proportions to move to a new position undetected.

As she moved far to her right, she readied her sniper rifle, knowing she would only have the time to line up one shot, maybe two, once she reached the stack of crates she sprinted toward. Despite the craziness of it all, an uncanny calm washed over Feign as her stride changed with the weight of the M-98 in her hands instead of on her back. It reminded her of her past life, of why she was on the asteroid in the first place—she excelled in the service, she became the soldier officers wanted leading the charge, because she would get the job done. In a way, it also reminded her why she became all those things, reminded her of the life she abdicated when she joined the Alliance, of the fact that she left nothing to become someone.

Her breathing slowed and she lined up the first shot. The deep crack echoed off the flat metallic surfaces; she ignored it, realigned her sights, and fired a second before ducking back behind cover to trade the Widow for her sidearm. The Systems Alliance M-5 Phalanx would have been standard-issue if she were still in the Alliance Navy, but she had lifted this one off a mercenary back on Omega. Even if her presence on the asteroid in the Bahak system came at the behest of Admiral Steven Hackett himself, that did not mean Shepard had been welcomed back into the fold. It only meant like so many times before, Feign topped the short list of people who could get this mission done, and get it done right no matter the final cost.

Seconds ticked down in her heads-up display of her helmet. She knew she did not have the time to do this smart, the way she was trained. Taking a deep breath, Shepard reengaged her tactical cloak and sprinted straight for the first target. Two quick shots for both he and his associate crouching nearby. Her omnitool glowing, it unfurled as she turned into the sweeping motion of her arm. The third man collapsed to the ground, then the former Alliance soldier hurried toward the communications tower. With all the shuttles departed, and likely already through the relay, that tower held her only chance of making it off that rock with the information she obtained. Information the Alliance needed to hear.

No one was ready for what she learned in that system, though. Despite years’ worth of warnings, the Council, the Alliance, hell, the entire galaxy continued to ignore her warnings and, more importantly, every shred of evidence she handed them, or that they had seen with their own eyes. Feign, better than anyone, knew most of the galaxy viewed her like the other farmyard animals looked at Chicken Little in that old Earth parable. She had yelled long and loud, screaming that the sky was falling in, for all the good it did. Not a one paid attention. Well, some did, but only a scant few of those could affect actual change or encourage preparation for the impending Reaper Invasion. Instead, they did their best ostrich impression, burying their heads in the sand, while employing every tactic in their political arsenals to quiet her, discount her, and pull every ounce of power out of her voice. Hell, her own decision to work with Cerberus merely helped them in mounting myriad attacks against her; she kept yelling, and would not stop until the universe started listening—or were forced to, which seemed the most likely option.

She stuck to cover, picking off guards carefully, before the steady fire of the big canon on the YMIR mech forced her back behind a massive crate. Without the ammunition to deal with the mech at close range, she gave up ground, engaging her cloak and putting distance between them. Just as her form shimmered back into view, she slid behind a crate, sniper rifle hugged to her chest. Two long controlled breaths filled echoed in her helmet. As soon as the machine burned through its magazine, she slid the rifle around the edge of the crate, sighted the massive mech in the scope and fired off two quick shots; the first was perfectly placed, cracking the face shield, but the recoil from the Widow sent the second shot wild, a smoking hole in a nearby crate the only indication that it hit anything.

It took longer than she would have liked to finally whittle down mech’s shields and punch through its armor. Her cloak shimmered back to life and she took the extra moment granted by its invisibility to line up a perfect shot; the instant the cloak fell, the round impacted, straight through the little glowing circle in the center of its “head,” shorting out the massive body and sending fragments of white plated metal still sparking with electrical discharge into the walls and across the deck. The body, its chest bearing several punctures from her rounds, sparked and spurt flames as it collapsed.

No other engagement ensued after the mech’s destruction, which she took as a sign that she alone remained in the receiving area of the base. Even so, Shepard skulked toward the communications tower with care—darting to and checking around cover as she made her way across the relatively open space. Finally, once she was certain that no one else lurked in wait, she sprinted for the tower. It only took a moment to get the external communications open.

Her heart raced as the relay loomed closer, jumping into her throat as her first call to the _Normandy_ went unanswered. _Stupid_ , she thought, _I told him to leave. They_ _’re long gone by now._ She tried again, despite the futility of it. The glowing blue of the relay cast a sickly tint over the roof, and she made one last desperate attempt.

“Shepard to Normandy. Joker, do you read me?”

While her ship, her home, gave no answer, someone else did.

“Shepard.”

 _Harbinger._ Feign rounded the control panel, closing on the transmitted image, instinctively pointing her pistol at the projection in spite of the emptiness of the gesture.

“You have become an annoyance.”

The scaled-down visage of the Reaper loomed over the tower, over Feign. As it had for the last several months, the entity taunted her with the impending return of its kind and with the seemingly inevitable destruction of all life in the known galaxy. With the futility of her own existence, her own struggle. The smug, mechanical tone, the familiar message, and the fact that it felt the need to appear to her again at that place, at that moment all combined to renew Shepard’s fervor like nothing else could. At the precipice of exhaustion and mortality, her reaction sharpened and, as she had so many times before, Shepard sounded off at the massive fate engine.

“Yes, people will die.” It was a fact she knew far too well. She had already lost people to this threat, people that meant a great deal to her. She jabbed her finger at the visage as she neared the landing pad it hung above “Maybe we’ll lose half the galaxy. Maybe more. But know this … _I_ will do _whatever_ it takes to rid the galaxy of the Reaper threat. However, _insignificant_ ,” Feign spat out the word, her anger betrayed in her tone and stance, “we might be, we will fight. We will sacrifice. And we _will_ find a way. That’s what humans do.” Her heart pounded in her chest as her rage pulsed through her.

The Reaper’s voice remained calm, measured, artificial. “Know this, as you die in vain, your time will come. Your species will fall,” Harbinger warned before it pulled away. Her eyes narrowed at the retreating image which began to fade. “Prepare yourselves for the Arrival.”

Her breath echoed in her ears with every exhale. Harbinger’s voice had haunted her dreams since Horizon, since she heard it call her name and taunt her through the guise of the Collector forces it assumed control of. Shepard knew the trend would continue, though now its threats felt much more daunting, more palpable, closer.

Despite her visceral reaction to the Reaper’s threats, Feign shifted gears smoothly when another, more familiar voice invaded her thoughts, shattering her anger. “Shepard. Normandy inbound for pick up.”

Her head snapped around and she zeroed in on the familiar silhouette of the _Normandy_. For that moment, her encounter with Harbinger faded, replaced with more pressing needs. Feign turned and sprinted toward the Normandy, which slowed as it approached one of the docking ramps. She did not stop running after her jump landed her on the ramp of the ship’s cargo bay; she hit the button for the elevator and prayed to every deity she could remember (even the Hanar’s Enkindlers) that she would make it in time. Her heart in her throat, stomach, somewhere around her knees, she dashed into the cockpit and ordered Joker to get them out of there. She tried to ignore the asteroid closing the already short distance between them and the relay. She closed her eyes. _It_ _’s too close. We aren’t going to make it._ She had been running for so long; it was all finally catching up, she was sure of it.

All the prayers in the bay and the elevator were for naught at that moment. Feign placed all her faith in Joker. She remembered a tirade he had shortly after they were first assigned to the _Normandy_. He was the best damn pilot in the Alliance Navy, in the galaxy, in her opinion. He had never let her down. Surely, he would not fail her now. Her hands tightened around the frame of his chair.

Never had the gravitational tug of a relay jump felt so inviting to Feign. She savored that almost indescribable pull that anchored her to the deck, which paired with a hint of vibration that flowed through her body as the _Normandy_ sped toward its jump point. She exhaled when the ship slowed, marked by the release of the gravitational pressure. Her stomach floated upward, back where it should be, and a momentary sense of calm eased the fatigue wracking her body. Moreau once again pulled her boots right out of the fire, even if they were a bit more singed than usual.

Shepard realized she was not the only one affected by the situation when Joker recorded the jump result, saying, “Drift, just under 2.7K.”

She popped the seals and pulled off her helmet, ruffling her hand through the strands of nearly white hair highlighted with bright pink tips. “That’s awfully high,” she chided, though her tone might have suggested to anyone else that she was serious.

“Well, considering I just jumped us through a relay about to be destroyed by an asteroid, after having snatched grandma out of the big bad wolf’s teeth …” Joker gave her a cynical glance. “I’d say 2.7 was better than par.”

Feign sat on the arm of the empty second chair, laughing gently as she nodded her agreement. Joker did not usually let the stress of his job get to him, but that one had been closer even than any other mission they had scraped through, or so she thought. “I might just give you that one.”

“What the hell happened back there, Shepard?”

Her mouth twitched as her eyes flicked up from the helmet in her hands to meet his. “What always happens, Joker?” she asked with a hint of a shrug in her shoulders.

He had been through the aftermath of as many screwed up missions as Feign had. Thus, by her accounting, Joker knew the answer to his own question, and hers, as well as she did. The details did not really matter in the end, she thought.

“Shit hits the fan? You kill everything that moves?” he said, deadpan.

Her laughter gained volume and she actually cracked a smile. “Something like that.” She nodded slowly, holding his gaze.

Her old pilot, old friend had pulled her out of another hard spot. Despite the frustration she felt that he seemed to mirror in the shake of his head, he smiled at her, looked as relieved to have her back as she was to be onboard again. In the past, he summed his brand of heroics up to duty. Since Project Lazarus, his dedication proved more difficult for Feign to classify.

Joker looked at her and treated her like he always had, with that odd mix of deference and insubordination. In the past she chalked it all up to rank, because that reason explained her own behavior eighty percent of the time. But it felt different now. There was no rank between them, just the past. Just what she struggled to consider friendship, only because she could not come to terms with what Cerberus had done to her, nor why.

So, as per her modus operandi, she said nothing more on that subject. “Find us a comm buoy and scramble a transmission to Hackett.”

She stood and strode down the deck. She managed to sidestep Kelly and her ever present desire to analyze Shepard, the rest of the crew, and their every reaction. Somehow, she reached her cabin in the loft without encountering another single soul, which suited Feign just fine. What she wanted, what she _needed_ right that moment was solitude and hot water—scalding hot.

Within minutes of her arrival, her usually squared away quarters were a mess. Her weapons rested on the desk, pieces of armor lay where she dropped them, and her undersuit draped across the metal deck like a headless crime scene outline. Her personal console glowed orange as the transcription software turned her audio logs into text—the start of her Alliance report, though it would need some revision. The splash of the water against the walls and dripping to the floor almost drowned out the music she turned up loud enough to flood through the closed door of the bathroom.

Feign closed her eyes and turned her face toward the spray, holding her breath and savoring the refreshing rain-like sensation as much as the heat. The water streamed through her cheekbone-length hair, which was anything but regulation now—shaved sides gave way to what was usually styled into a Mohawk dyed shock white with bright pink ombre. Her dark skin itched from the grime of what felt like centuries, making it hard to believe it had only been three days. When she reached for the nearby washcloth and soap, the first flash hit her.

Her sight went dark and the whole bathroom shifted hard to port. A gasp of shock left her choking as she inhaled the falling water. She reached out for the wall in an effort to steady herself, palms pressed flat against the wall; reality came back into view. She blinked a few times and her vision cleared. Wanting to make sure it was over, she stared at the bar of bluish soap moving through the shallow puddle gathering around her feet. With a hint of vertigo, she bent forward enough to press her forehead against the cool wall, a blessedly refreshing contrast to the blanket of heat pouring over her body.

Just as she started to relax, it happened again; her head ached and her sight went dark again. This time the images became clearer. It was like seeing Sovereign on Eden Prime, sleek, curving black hulls with gangly, insect-like legs, except in her head it was not one lone Reaper, it was a sea of them. Her hands flexed against the smooth wall, seeking purchase. Another blink and she saw Earth, a dozen or more Reapers circling the planet. She did not know if it was a vision or a waking nightmare spawned from wild imagination. Maybe it was some combination of the two that conjured an image of Reapers touching down in Kolkata. Then after another blink Feign picked out Reaper hulls towering above the Beijing skyline while that horrible whine burrowed into her head.

She fought to open her eyes again to find herself on her knees, nose inches from the pooling water swirling near the drain as she pulled deep inhales of humid air into her lungs, as if she had been holding her breath. That whine deafened her and she tried to steady herself, to clear her mind. It took time for her to recognize that the sound was not Harbinger, but EDI calling her name. Though she heard the proclamation, “Help is on the way, Shepard,” it did not register until the bathroom door slid open and she felt arms hook beneath hers.

The roughness of one appendage told her Garrus was there. The smooth even keel of the voice that spoke to her could only be Thane’s. The higher pitches mixed in as she was placed on the corner of the bed and wrapped in a towel belonged to Jack and Miranda. She blinked at her hands as the cacophony of indistinguishable voices moved around her, finally Feign mumbled a weak, “I’m fine.”

When she glanced upward to find the faces that should be familiar, they were anything but. Husks stood in place of friends, while others were clearly something else—not husks, but maybe worse. She inched away as Garrus leaned toward her, his keen eyes sunken and glowing in an unnatural shade of blue, his fringe appeared distorted, face darkened and unmarked, though still scarred. Feign screwed her eyes tightly against the vision and shook her head violently, desperate to get it out of her head.

“Shepard!” Jack yelled, shaking her shoulders. When Feign looked at her, she just stared wide-eyed at who, or what should have been her friend. This husk’s gray tattered flesh bore the ink that matched the voice, though there was little left of the woman’s distinctive bone structure.

The gray-eyed woman reached out and touched a gray sunken cheek with far too much tenderness. “I was too late,” she whispered, the inflection of her voice a question.

In an instant she was ripped away from the husk and into the arms of the drell—his flesh now dry and cracked showing off an unnatural blue glow beneath, which betrayed the end of true life in his body. His dark eyes remained dark but were glazed with the same bluish haze that crested the ridges of his brow and followed the pattern sweeping back over his skull.

She kept blinking, clinging to the seemingly futile hope that she would eventually open her eyes and it would all be as it should be—as it was. The tactic failed, in fact seemed to intensify the effect. Her vision darkened around the edges as she touched Thane’s face. _It_ _’s my fault_ , she thought. “I should have done more,” she whispered.

He hefted her again and her eyes locked on his mouth as it moved, but she could not hear him. It was like listening from underwater, nothing but incoherent sound. People touched her, then they stopped. Voices changes modulation and frequency. Despite the bright lights flashing in her eyes, things got darker. Time faded into nothing but vague, disconnected sensations—the sharp stick of a needle to hang an IV bag, the gentle touch of a friend paired with words that echoed in her ears without meaning, the electronic symphony of medical equipment beeped, buzzed, and whirred at the edge of her hearing.

 

**-2-**

Coming to felt like déjà vu. Her limbs were heavy and sluggish. Bright sterile lights cast strange shadows on the ceiling and a muffled voice called out to her. Though this time it did not call her Shepard, and it sounded less frantic, warmer. “Commander.” Feign pushed a hand through her hair with a groan that sounded especially loud inside her own skull. Doctor Chakwas moved into her line of sight.

“Damn, that light is bright.” Feign squinted and started to bring her arm up to shield her eyes from the invasion, but the doctor blocked the movement.

“Be still.”

The order sounded like it came through a pillow, all muffled and only marginally coherent, though the stern look transmitted the message clear enough. Feign watched Chakwas, more accurately she stared set of the other woman’s mouth—the way it went from relaxed to pursed. The doctor’s sigh preceded the first question; she always started slow with easy questions meant to assess her patient’s status, gauge the reactions. Or at least that was how she approached Feign. Then they got more pointed, pushier.

 Feign finally just blurted it out. “Those idiots had a Reaper device out in the open. Object Rho they called it,” she added with a calmer tone. “It was more powerful than anything we’ve seen so far.”

Shepard knew the doctor pushed because in her time serving on the Normandy, she learned that pestering Shepard was usually the best way to get her to reveal what was really going on. Otherwise it proved tough to get past the chorus of “I’m fine” and “I’ll live” peppered with “Nothing to worry about.”

So that was what Chakwas did. “Go on,” the doctor prompted

“Kenson …” Feign shook her head. “She was cracked,” she said with more strength and determination. “Leaving that thing out in the open. Letting it affect those people. Cunt told me to give it a minute and it would show me all the proof I needed. Damned if she wasn’t right,” she added, her voice losing that command presence as she rubbed at her pounding head. “That vision or whatever it was knocked me off my feet.”

Chakwas’ hands were warm on her cheeks. The doctor stared Shepard in the eyes, then checked her pupillary response. Shepard knew it for what it was, an attempt to impart unwanted comfort, consideration that would normally be rebuked by the woman on the table. Feign preferred a bit of distance. It was easier, safer. Anytime she broke that rule it went badly for the person she let get too close. Even her dearest friends were kept at arm’s length as much as she could manage it.

“Like what you experienced on Eden Prime, Commander?” the doctor inquired, a hand finally coming to rest on Shepard’s shoulder.

Chakwas was the only person Feign did not correct, at least after once asking Karin why she referred to Shepard by her rank, even if she did not hold it any longer. The medical officer’s answer knocked the wind out of Feign, so she let it slide. Deep down she appreciated the doctor’s insistence, though Feign would never admit it. Shepard had most of the rest of the squad, even EDI, either calling her by her given or surname.

“Yes and no,” Shepard replied.

“I’m going to need more detail than that, or I’m going to keep you right here for observation.”

 _Damn she_ _’s good_. Feign shot Karin a quick grimace. “I had an image forced into my head and spent two days unconscious in a place where that thing could whisper in my ears without me fighting back in any way.” Her voice quieted as she stared at the doctor, hoping she would pick up on the unspoken insinuation—the fear resting in the back of her head.

“I’ll run more tests. Compare them to your baseline. And I’ll keep you here for the time being.” Chakwas squeezed Shepard’s arm then turned to grab a datapad from her desk. When she returned, the medical officer inquired further. “Lay back and try to relax. What was this vision?”

“Hell of a way to get me to relax, Doc,” Feign teased as she laid back and tucked one arm behind her head. She did not fight the order. She would rather give up the information than have Chakwas needle her, maybe even literally, for the details. “Saw the Reaper fleet, a sea of those bastards, heading straight for the Alpha Relay.”

The doctor nodded, fingers moving over the console next to the bed Shepard reclined on. “And what happened in your quarters?”

That was another story. Feign’s jaw tightened. “I saw it again.”.

Chakwas looked at her, and Shepard could tell the doctor knew there was more to it. Her brow raised in inquiry, though the question was never voiced.

With a slow, deep breath, Shepard considered her options. _Everyone on the damn boat is going to ask. Might as well get it out now_ , she thought. Closing her eyes, she said, “I saw them reach Earth, landing in places I knew.” As she mentioned it, the images popped back into her mind and her eyes shot open. Thankfully, Chakwas still retained her human visage. “Saw traces of what might happen, you could say.”

“And what could happen?”

“I saw husks—human, drell, turian,” she admitted quietly, not that anything said on the ship stood a chance of remaining a secret for long.

Chakwas nodded, gravely, holding Feign’s gaze. “You saw the crew?”

Feign gave a single reluctant nod. Her eyes never left Chakwas’ face. If the woman thought she was crazy, indoctrinated, or whatever she never showed that. Though the pity Shepard saw almost made her wish for one of the others.

“I should warn you. Hackett’s on his way.”

Shepard leaned up on her elbows. “What?”

“You were still out, but he had already heard. The news about the Alpha Relay is spreading fast, almost as fast as the rumors.”

Feign dropped back onto the bed pulling her palms over her face. With a groan, she muttered, “Tā mā de,” under her breath.

Chakwas chuckled in reply.

“And he was informed of my status?”

“Spoke with him personally.”

“And candidly, I’m sure.”

Chakwas gave a curt nod.

 _Beautiful_ , she thought. _Just what I need right now, the admiral seeing me on a Cerberus ship thinking I_ _’m a bigger threat than he already did._ She read the stories and heard the rumors about how the first human Spectre had sold out—faked her death and become a Cerberus lap or attack dog, depending on the reporter.

Anderson’s reaction when she met him on the Citadel proved her outsider status, not that there had been much of a doubt about it left by that time. Hell, in her mind, that was the reason Hackett reached out to her in the first place; she was no longer Alliance. Her actions could be pawned off on a lone human with no ties to the Alliance or the Council, which meant she could easily be labeled another crazed Cerberus terrorist. With that realization, her stomach tightened against a wave of nausea.

She alone dangled from the hook at the end of the line. If enough information about the events in Bahak escaped the explosion to create rumors about her, then there was enough for the batarians to want blood, her blood. It also meant she would be the one twisting in the wind. With no ties other than to Cerberus, Feign felt certain she would be hung out to dry no matter where the orders came from. It might not have been the first time she felt that way, but she had hoped the whole one-man infiltration would add more of an air of mystery to what happened and, more importantly, who was responsible.

 _I can take it. I can handle this. I got through Torfan—through people hating me and spitting on me when they realized I was that Shepard. I got through the death threats, then through the nose wrinkles and judgmental looks. I can do this,_ she told herself. She sat up slowly. While she convinced herself she could muscle through whatever might come her way, she could not take it lying down. Feign moved to hop off the bed.

She needed to be on her feet, not lying supine for testing that would not matter in the long run. The Reapers were coming. The Alliance would serve her up for this. Cerberus had no reason to have her back; at every possible turn she made the Illusive Man regret bringing her back. He only seemed to put up with her because it suited his needs at the moment.

Thoughts raced through her head. Plans formed and were scrapped. One thing became a priority for the rogue former N7, former Spectre, former almost respectable soldier turned Cerberus stooge and terrorist—she had to protect her crew. They had nothing to do with this and she, for damn sure, was not about to let them get one drop of shit on them in the approaching storm. Shepard needed to get her people clear, somehow.

“Shepard,” Chakwas called. “I need you to at least sit, so we can finish this scan.”

The stern look on the medical officer’s face hit home, and with a nod Feign hopped back onto the bed, mind still racing. _I’ll find a way_ , she promised silently to all her crew as she watched the doctor _._

 

**-3-**

Meeting with Hackett turned out not to be the brush off Shepard expected. Instead of serving her up on a platter, the admiral commended her, and even offered a sliver of hope by telling her, “Do whatever you have to do out here, but when Earth calls, you make sure you’re there with your dress blues on. Ready to take the hit,” for what _he_ asked her to do. The shock left her replying with little more than a mute nod. That feeling remained with her for hours and days after.

Months earlier Shepard awoke in a dark tunnel, which held nothing but pain and questions. For too long it seemed destined to end with her death on the Collector homeworld, at least that was the plan when she signed on. Her path proved chock full of twists, turns, and full circles, uphill climbs, and sheer drops of rocky slopes. And that was beyond the mission parameters which littered it with people, aliens, and other creatures hell-bent on killing her. Then there were the obstacles.

This mission proved a challenge on every level. Physically, it took a heavy toll, putting her in contact with diseases and risking her own abduction by the collectors. What differed from every other mission were the people, the reactions of people she knew, the ones that used to trust her, but saw someone else now. Tali questioned Feign in a way that only left the human cautious about herself. Garrus kept her at arm’s length, always having calculations or some such nonsense anytime she turned to him initially. Even Liara seemed uncertain, though Feign realized quickly enough that might have more to do with what the asari had done than Feign herself. Then there was Ash, she recalled Horizon with a tired shake of her head. The people proved much harder to overcome than the heavy combat rotation—their disbelief, distrust, and the questions. Questions Feign did not have answers to.

Some days that winding tunnel turned out to be easier to traverse, while others proved nearly impossible. But as the mission progressed Feign started to feel like there was a light flickering far off in the distance. It got a little brighter when Hackett suggested he might be willing to drape his cloak of protection over her. If he was willing to hold the forces-that-be at bay, and go to the mat for her, then perhaps reinstatement in the Alliance might be possible. Feign felt like she could be inching closer to reclaiming her life, her identity—and maybe feeling like herself again for the first time since she woke up under attack on a Cerberus science station.

Of course, that flicker was a long way off. There were more obstacles and hoops to be jumped through before she got to that point. Not the least of which was getting herself and her crew back from beyond the Omega relay. Her front teeth rubbed back and forth against one another as she considered that mission, looming in the distance. They had to do this right. Everything had to be in order.

Even as she tried to focus her mind on the nearest task at hand two disparate goals battled for her attention—ending the Collectors raids and keeping her crew out of the crosshairs of the Alliance, the Council, and the batarians.

Her ability to focus also battled the waning influence of Object Rho, which sometimes still steered the path of her dreams. Some nights her conversation with Hackett replayed, leaving her with a child-like glee when she woke. There were also those nocturnal escapades where reality combined with imagination and nightmare to create disturbing alterations to memories, dreams, and old hopes for the future. When her dreams turned all her friends into monstrous indoctrinated versions of themselves, Feign woke breathless and in cold sweats, as if she needed new nightmares to add to the traumatic lineup that fought for screen time when she slept. Nightmares had plagued her since childhood and the playbill grew throughout her life to include events on Torfan, Virmire, Ilos, and any number of missions in between. But she took the disruption of rest in stride—PT time with Rage the Space Hamster, a cold shower, and an apple, usually did the trick.

What exacerbated her situation after returning from Aratoht proved to be the replaying of those same visions which crippled her in the shower. From time to time they struck her when awake as well. On the shuttle to Gei Hinnom, she managed to not react too viscerally when the faces of her squad warped again. Thankfully, it did not happen on the ground, then. On Aequitas, Shepard was not so lucky.

Once the squad entered the mine and Shepard found herself so close to another unearthed and powered artifact, the visions hit her harder, taking the cherished memory of an honored, lost friend, and warped his warm amber eyes into synthetic, glowing blue. The image of Kaidan husked knocked the wind out of her for a moment. If they had been anywhere but a mine, some place where she could have found a position to snipe from, no one would have been the wiser. In close quarters, however, her reaction did not escape Thane’s keen eye, even in the thick of an onslaught. Her gauntlet rang off the metal table, the reverberation rattling through her arm before she dropped to one knee. She reeled for a moment, needing to steady herself and wipe that image from her mind, but her beat was long enough for her to nearly get toppled over by a particularly frisky husk.

The lingering side effects, if that’s what they were, paired with the effect on her reactions finally cemented her decision. The Collectors were dealt with, and the clean-up was all but complete. Plus, the Alpha Relay incident was the biggest story on every news channel and her name was being freely attached to the incident. Several batarian Hegemony leaders were calling for her head on a pike. Some quite literally. And given the circles within which Feign had been travelling of late, retribution ranked high on her list of concerns.

“This type of action is just what we’ve come to expect from _humans_. They placate the Council races, while continually visiting destruction and devastation on my people. The destruction of the Alpha Relay was the last straw. If the Citadel does not take adequate action, the Hegemony will hunt down this Cerberus terrorist on our own, deliver her to Khar’shan, and mete out the justice she and her people truly deserve for this atrocity,” he growled at the asari reporter. The name at the bottom of the image read, Crethe Gran’degar, High General of the Hegemony.

“Hypocrite,” she muttered at the screen. Not that his announcement surprised her. That was their way—brutality, violence, rampant destruction. She heard the stories about what happened on Mindoir, including some of the classified reports, the ones that did not make the news. Hell, having seen the devastation of Elysium firsthand, after the fact, was the very reason she volunteered to lead a squad in the assault on Torfan.

 _How many worlds have they burned? How many lives have they taken, enslaved, and destroyed? But he has the nerve to call me a terrorist?_ She scoffed and hit end on the vid.

The batarians yelling from the rafters was one thing, what stung most was the reactions of humans and other Council races. They still did not believe her, even with irrefutable evidence in hand; or at least it would have been if it had come from anyone besides the Butcher of Torfan who had just killed nearly 400,000 batarians and become the first being in living memory to destroy a relay.

It seemed that every scrap of good in her life had been pushed aside. Every voice that spoke her name equated it with Aratoht, the Bahak system, and the destruction of the Alpha Relay. It just added to the fuel of the bonfire the Council, Cerberus, and the Alliance Brass could use to send her life and her memory up in flames. It was worse than the backlash from Torfan—another part of her past which did not help her current predicament.

The events on Torfan did not ignite the galaxy against her. Though the batarians used it as proof of Shepard’s hatred of their people. Even back then, after the raids on the pirate strongholds, Feign’s adamant insistence that species had no effect on her decisions on that moon did little to nothing for her cause at the time. Of course, after Elysium, humanity’s irate response allowed her brand of retaliation—total annihilation of the enemy though her own men paid a hefty price for it. The results were what the brass, the human politicians, and their press wanted. The batarians retreated from Citadel space and pirate activity in the area fell.

Still there were voices that cried out the word “Butcher” in conjunction with Feign’s name. There were questions, which grew loud enough to spark an inquiry. When Feign was cleared of wrongdoing, the dissention grew for a time. By the time she became a Spectre, no one even whispered the name Torfan. The memory of what happened on that moon became just another enemy she overcame in her career, though it made some officers wary about working with her.

Along with the darker ones, pristine memories haunted her for days until the decision finally stuck. While she was considering her next move, it became abundantly clear that no one wanted her help. It had been nearly a week since the mine. Even Cerberus lacked the desperation to use her even for unsavory missions. That was when the realization came to her. _It_ _’s time._ _Time to answer that call and take the hit. Before it gets too hot._

Feign did not waste time with grand preparations, nor did she skulk around the ship whispering her intentions in the shadows. No, as soon as the decision was made she steeled herself and called EDI’s name with a placid calm in her tone.

“Yes, Shepard,” came the expected reply.

“Open a ship-wide channel,” she ordered. Her shoulders squared and her back straightened as she took a breath and waited for the chime. “Attention all hands. Our mission proved a resounding success, thanks to all of you, the Collectors will not be scavenging another human colony.”

She paused for the roar that seemed to engulf the entire ship, Feign did not stifle the small grin that twisted the corners of her mouth upward. They had every reason to celebrate.

“Their construction of a human Reaper was stopped, but sadly that’s not the end to the Reapers.” The deck had quieted again. “Though it does bring our mission together to a close.”

“No!” Ken’s lilting reply resounded through the entire ship.

Mordin’s gentle question, “Shepard?” rang clearly in her ears, contrasting the other reactions. She did not look at him.

Feign appreciated their arguments, but ignored them as several of the faces around the CIC turned toward her all silently demonstrating similar opinions. But her attention remained where it started on the helm of the ship. Joker spun around with a wide grin when she congratulated the crew. Feign watched his mouth fall into a frown and his eyes widen in a look of horror that was clear even across the expanse of that corridor. Her hands tightened around each other behind her back, straining her shoulders, but keeping them square as she spoke to them all and directly to the person that stood by her through the years.

“Your work, your friendship, your allegiance to this mission cannot be repaid with words. But I can assure that none of you will share my fate when I turn myself and this vessel over to the Alliance and answer for what happened in the Bahak system.”

The murmuring and disagreement fell silent when the _Normandy_ rocked with the shock of a biotic punch that could only have come from beneath the engineering deck. Feign knew Jack would not be pleased; her friend still tried to convince her that her talents could be put to more lucrative use elsewhere. Several alerts sounded, and many of the shocked faces turned away from her to deal with them. But Joker never broke her gaze, his horror took on a look of accusation, of betrayal. She could not blame him for that.

“Realize that the _Normandy_ ’s ports of call are highly limited at this time. I will arrange port at Illium and can arrange transport through a few trusted sources that can get you to the Citadel and Omega if you so desire. Please make your intentions known to EDI, asap, so that arrangements can be made. I expect the disembarking to take less than a week in total,” she added in a tone that resounded like any order she had given in combat. “Shepard out.”

She held Joker’s gaze for another moment, then turned, coming face to face with more of her shocked crew. “Shepard,” Miranda said reaching toward her. Feign just held her hand up and sidestepped the woman, slipping between her and Garrus into the lift. She had said her piece. There was no conversation necessary, at least in her mind.

Despite their shock, some of her crew understood her decision, though none of them liked it. Shepard chalked up the poorer reactions to the manner in which she decided to announce her plans. Some of them had known her for years, some of them came to be confidantes in a short time, the others had heard stories, so Feign could not see how any of them could expect her to do anything different.

Segregating herself afterward delayed the confrontation. These people all of them had become friends, many of them felt like family. Feign turned to Liara to ensure that all she promised would come to fruition.

The new Shadow Broker waited for a full explanation before the question came demurely, “Are you sure about this, Feign?”

It was one of the few times, she could remember Liara referring to her by her first name, and it stunned her to hear it. “No. But it has to be done. And I refuse to put them, any of them, in the middle of it.”

Feign could hear Liara’s breathing, hear the starts and stops of her friend’s potential replies, but they all stopped before becoming fully voiced. “This isn’t right.”

“When does do what needs to be done, mean doing what’s right, Liara? You’re the only one I can trust with this. If not for me, then do it for Tali and Garrus.”

“That’s not fair, Shepard.”

“No, it’s not.”

The sigh told Feign the tactic worked. “I’ll make the arrangements. Have EDI forward me the requests and I’ll make sure it goes off without a hitch.”

“Thank you, Liara.”

“You’re welcome, Feign.”

The conversation shifted to logistics, the minutiae always proved easier than the emotion. Feign continued her arrangements, preparing files and data packets late into the night. At one point she tried to rest, but sleep evaded her like she avoided her crew. So, she took an old trusted route and headed down to the gym off the cargo bay, hoping some physical activity might help push her toward exhaustion enough to sleep a little.

She knew her squad well enough to know they would not go along with her decision quietly. To no one’s surprise, including hers, Garrus instigated confrontation. He joined her in the gym shortly after, offering to spot her as she bench-pressed a lighter load than usual. It was far too helpful, and he was far too silent. She was two-thirds of the way through her third set when he started in on her.

“It’s getting to you, isn’t it?” he asked, leaning over her.

“What?” she asked in a defiant, yet tired tone.

“Come on, Shepard.”

Feign pushed the bar up twice more, finishing her set. When she dropped it into the dumbbell holder, Garrus’ hands landed near hers as he leaned over her and stared her dead in the eyes.

“This is not on you,” the turian added.

“Order are orders.”

“Soldiers follow orders,” he retorted, throwing one of her own mantras back at her.

Since waking up in a Cerberus research facility, since reluctantly hooking up with the Illusive Man, Feign had been quick to remind everyone that she was no longer _Commander_ Shepard, that she was not a soldier anymore. “That’s just it, isn’t it, Garrus? I’m not a soldier. I’m fucking dead. And I should have died again on the other side of the Omega Relay.”

“Except you’re too stubborn to die,” Jack added from the doorway.

Feign merely stared at the woman, who had become her closest friend, for a long moment before her eyes traveled over the faces of the others congregated there with her. There was a word for this, Shepard was sure—interruption, interference, … intervention. _Fuck_ _‘em all_ , she thought as she rolled into a sitting position with a feline grace. “I don’t officially exist. Except that I’m still kicking around thanks to Miranda’s science experiment.”

“You’re welcome, Shepard.” Her smooth voice came from the intercom.

 _For fuck_ _’s sake._ “Look at this from the reasonable perspective.” Mordin’s lanky frame shifted in the doorway and he blinked at her with skepticism. “If I’m anything I’m an earthborn civilian with ties to an organization with anti-alien sentiments and terrorist tendencies, whose been tear-assing through the Terminus trying to save _human_ colonies. Then I went and blew up an entire mass relay, took out the population of a whole damn planet—”

“To stop the Reapers,” Tali injected, arms crossed over her chest and her hip cocked with as much attitude as her lithe frame and gentle voice could muster—which was quite more than most would expect from a quarian.

“Ah, yes. Reapers,” Feign mocked, doing her best impression of the turian councilor, including his air quotes. “If I’m lucky, I’ll get a firing squad. At least then I can go out with a bullet.”

“Fuck’em,” Jack piped.

“Jack’s right,” Miranda noted.

“Excuse me?” Feign and Jack replied in unison. That had to have been a once in a lifetime utterance.

“If past behavior is any marker—” she started in that posh, smug tone of hers.

“If past behavior was a marker, none of us would trust the others.”

Garrus cleared his throat. “Think of it this way, Shepard. Archangel could always use a sidekick,” he reasoned in a tone so calm that she could not help but take it as ridiculous. Feign struggled not to laugh at the idea or the image of the pair of them, she and Garrus, as some interstellar version of Batman and Robin—all stealth, tech, and death.

“Not quite what I had in mind,” Jack mumbled, arms crossed loosely, with a hint of a pout on her lips.

“Nah. Makes sense,” Zaeed chimed, straightening and stepping out of the corner he had been holding up. “You and the Shadow Broker are all buddy-buddy. Surely you can find a way to disappear.”

Feign rubbed at her forehead. Even when she expected her crew to disagree with what she was doing, she had not expected them all to chime in. With a sigh, she added another wrench. “The Normandy might be a dead giveaway, don’t you think?”

“Paint it purple and call it a rachni,” Joker replied without missing a beat.

Shepard pressed her hand to her mouth, trying her damnedest not to laugh.

“There is something to that suggestion,” EDI injected in that cool and reasoned tone of hers. “I regularly copy vessel signatures. Normandy could transmit them when traveling through certain systems when the stealth drives are not engaged. As long as we are not visually identified, the Normandy could pass unnoticed. Additionally, given your past associations with Aria T’Loak, proper compensation could make Omega a safe port. It is probable that similar reparations could make certain pirate and mercenary locations more hospitable than the last times you visited.”

“Great, now even my ship wants to go pirate,” Feign mumbled. She peeked up, eyes scanning the people in the room—Thane, Samara, Kasumi, Jack, Zaeed, Mordin, Vakarian. Hell, even Grunt was fidgeting just outside the open door. “What the hell is this? You all want to go rogue? Do I look like fucking Blackbeard?” she all but yelled, getting to her feet.

“Not too much, but I don’t think _Pink Mohawk_ is a pirate name that would strike fear into anyone’s heart,” her pilot replied.

“Fuck you, Joker.”

“You wish. You know you can’t handle all this.”

The whole room erupted in laughter.

“Damnit, Moreau,” Feign mumbled as she struggled to regain some semblance of her composure.

“They’re right and you know it, Shepard,” Garrus said in a calm tone as he stepped closer and set his hand on her shoulder. “This is stupid, bordering on suicidal. They are going to lock you up and sell you out again.”

Before she could disagree, Tali stepped forward. “You didn't see it after you died.”

“They hogtied us all, virtually—pulled out of rotations, segregated from one another,” Joker chimed.

Garrus’ hand tightened on her shoulder when the tension rose in her, Feign wondered for a second if he could feel it too. “They escorted all non-human crew at gunpoint, like we were enemies rather than allies,” Vakarian noted. “I don't know about the others, but they held Wrex and I in detention for weeks before Anderson finally pulled the right strings to get us released.”

“We refused to sign their non-disclosure agreements,” Tali announced. “From what I recall, there were few if any that would agree to forget what we did, what we'd seen.”

“We’ve talked about this, Shepard,” Joker said, adding his very familiar opinion to what felt like the most well-orchestrated guilt trip in the galaxy. “No one wanted you or what you did remembered. They wanted it all gone. It's going to be the same thing all over again.”

“Except that the moment they step on this ship,” Feign interrupted, “I'll be the only one here.”

“Like hell.” It was a response echoed in one way or another by most of the people in the room or listening in from elsewhere on the ship.

“That’s enough!” Shepard’s voice held the same command authority it used to always hold, when she held a rank, before she died, before she came back. “I appreciate what you are all trying to do, but what it comes down to is that I did this. I blew up that relay. And maybe I’m an idiot, maybe Hackett’s on the level or he could be completely full of shit. He said he’d have my back. Or I could just be walking into a metaphorical witch hunt, but that’s my choice.” Her eyes met some skepticism in the faces of the squad she had pieced together over the last several months, some shook their heads, others looked away, some did both. Mordin’s mouth remained stern, but when she met his gaze a small nod told her he understood. Like her, he had been someone that got the job done and she took some comfort in that. “No one has to take this ride with me, but it’s one that I have to take, whether you agree or not. It’s my decision. It’s time I stop running,” she said, staring at them, at Jack specifically.

They were both runners; both ran from places, people, and their own pasts. Jack had confronted hers in a manner of speaking, and Feign wished that she of all people would understand. But the tattooed biotic just looked betrayed, finally wrenching her gaze away from Feign’s.

“In fact, if it were up to me none of you would be within two jumps of this vessel when I turn it over. I contacted Liara, she’s going to get us secure port at Illium and from there she can get everyone where they need to go. Like I said earlier, just get EDI your final destination.”

With that, Feign ended the … _whatever the hell it was_. She gave Garrus a nod then crossed the room, striding like the officer she had been in another life, then slipped through the crowd at the door of the gym. Thankfully, they let her escape to the loft without further molestation. Once there, she looked around the room. It was less spartan than it had been when she arrived on the vessel. There were frames cycling photos on anything that would stand still, other snapshots had been printed out and tacked to the walls along with mementos.

She and Tali had begun collecting the models on a whim when they saw the miniature version of the old Normandy in a shop on the Citadel. Grunt had been the one to encourage her to bring Rage on board. Feign rubbed her finger against the glass of the terrarium and watched Rage wiggle his nose at the action. She still thought it might be the wrong name for the space hamster, but Grunt thought it more fitting than a salarian name.

Her desk held datapads, OSDs, and other signs of her work, like her gun and armor maintenance kits, but it was also dotted with keepsakes of the few extracurricular escapes she had made with crew, like a few makeshift trophies. A large caliber antique Earth slug sat on its own scrap metal stand next to her monitor; she and Garrus traded back and forth after missions based on whose marksman points were higher—which was determined from helmet cam footage. Their competition got so heated that Thane and Mordin had to review the footage and calculate the scores. A warm feeling rushed through her at the other mementos—a chipped mug, a half empty box of cigars, old actual made-of-paper books, an ancient padlock—all of it held new memories that meant as much as the old ones peppered through the room. And Feign still had no clue as to whose thong Jack had tacked to the wall.

Listening to her breathing, Feign tried to remind herself this was the right thing. Some moments it felt right—like when she thought about what could happen if the Hegemony made good on their threat to find her. That could cost everyone on the ship their lives, or worse. In other moments—like when Jack could not bear to look at her any longer, or when Joker looked at her liked she had betrayed him—it felt like she might just die all over again, except that this time it would not be an ambush. Considering the number of men and women she had ordered into the line of fire, it seemed fitting that she might just be ordering herself into the final fray.

Even if the rank was gone, even if her Spectre status had been revoked with her death, she was still a leader. Catching sight of the photo on her desk, Feign picked it up and delicately traced the wide smiles on their faces—hers, Ashley’s, and Kaidan’s. Tali had taken it the night the trio taught some of the new squad to play poker early on in the cruise. She stared at their faces—what would they think of all this? She hoped that if Kaidan had been there, he would understand. He would not like it, but he would support her in this. The Alliance took him in when people looked at him like a danger, just like the service had been there for Feign. He gave it his life, like she had. He would understand what losing it meant to her; what losing that part of herself meant.

Ashley might even have approved, once, though Feign had no earthly idea how her friend would take the news if and when it came out. After Horizon, Ash would probably just think Feign turning herself in was just some kind of stunt, some kind of ploy to gain back some shred of lost respect.

“Maybe it is,” she said to the photo, before setting it back on the desk amongst the clutter.

 

**-4-**

Over the next few days, the Normandy docked at the initially promised stops and a few extras requested by various crew members. That is to say that the vessel’s shuttles visited fuel depots in certain sectors and made certain that Shepard’s people were booked onto reputable starships. There was no chance the Normandy could receive clearance at the Citadel, not that Shepard wanted to get anywhere near Council Space.

After destroying the Collector Base and telling the Illusive Man to kick bricks, Feign guessed that the possibility was high that the batarians and the Council races were not the only threats looming on the horizon. Despite that, the _Normandy_ made port at Ilium, though the docking fees cost them five times as much as in previous visits.

The stop on Omega proved the most anxiety-inducing of them all, and the most perfectly timed—they could not risk staying at the station long. There was always someone willing to pay more to get the information they wanted, and with the large population of batarians on Aria’s security force Shepard refused to take any chances that might open up the ship to any retaliation for Bahak.

“You know we’re a sitting duck here, right?” Joker griped.

Feign kicked the side of his seat. When she sat on the arm of the chair next to him, she draped the assault rifle over her lap. “That’s the reason for this old girl,” she replied, her hand tapping the trigger guard with an armored fingertip.

“That’s going to go a long way against Aria’s security forces.”

“Oh ye of little faith.”

“It’s not faith I’m lacking, Shepard.”

The malicious smirk that curved her lips quieted his argument, which allowed her to address another situation. “EDI.”

“Yes, Shepard,” the AI turned its slitted eye toward her.

“You need to limit your interactions with the Alliance crew.”

“Jeff already gave me this direction.”

“Didn’t think the brass would be keen on the idea of an unshackled AI,” Joker added.

Feign nodded. “Seems all that’s left for me to do is wait for the call then shoot anyone that looks too curious.”

“Or we could just bail. Pick up Garrus and his stick.”

The former Alliance officer laughed. “Nah, I think he’s got better plans for his stick than babysitting me.”

“Yeah, better just to turn ourselves over to the Alliance and wait for the whitewash to begin.”

Her brow rose minutely.

“You know what I mean,” Joker added

“I’m not keeping you here. EDI can get us back to Alliance space.”

The helmsman just shook his head. “I’m not going anywhere. This is my home, too, damnit.”

“Good to hear it, Joker.”

“Shepard,” EDI interrupted. “I have Admiral Anderson on a scrambled channel.”

“Put it through,” she said a little impatient that she still had to order the AI to do things like that.

“I’ve got your clearance,” the admiral began. After he relayed the numbers, Joker set their course. Then the officer merely added. “I’ll be at the docking bay when you get here.”

“Wonder how many MPs we’re dealing with,” Joker mumbled as he steered toward the station that loomed above them for the last several minutes.

“Doesn’t really matter, they’re only going to be here for me anyway.” Shepard checked her weapon again; her thumb instinctively tapping the safety off and back on to make sure the rifle was not free to fire. Joker eyed her for a moment. Then she stood and walked toward the airlock. “And stop worrying; I got you immunity.”

“The fuck?” he yelled. The ship veered slightly as he looked over her shoulder at her. Feign only noticed it because the station went cockeyed in the view port.

If their roles had been reversed, Feign likely would have reacted with the same amount of shock and surprise as her friend. It came as no surprise when Joker seemed less than keen on the liberty she took, but if returning to the Alliance did result in a witch hunt, Feign decided to ensure that her name remained the only one on the menu. Over the years, Joker had been a loyal and steadfast friend, and removing him from the line of fire was the least she could do to repay his sacrifice. Or so she saw it.

EDI’s electronic, “Jeff!” sound akin to a scolding school teacher.

“Watch the road, Moreau.”

The pilot with too much to say kept his trap zipped for the time being. A part of Shepard hated greeting Anderson armored and fully armed, but after everything that happened over the last several months she had more than enough reason to be cautious and careful. When EDI announced the docking, Feign entered the airlock then gave the word to open it.

Anderson barely registered surprise at the greeting. “Just us, Shepard,” he said indicating the few soldiers with him, wearing regulation Alliance blue.

Looking at all of them clad for duty, Feign felt a twinge of nostalgia mixed with envy that made her grip her rifle tighter for a moment before her will won out and forced the weapon lower. “Sorry. It’s Omega. You never know with this place.”

“Understandable.” He waved the others past him into the airlock.

Shepard kept them all in front of her, stepping backward until her heel hit the inner door. Her eyes swept over them—backs ramrod straight, unreadable looks on their faces, though their eyes kept moving toward her. _Yeah, that_ _’s right. I’m the heroic whack-job turned Spectre turned traitor turned terrorist_ , she thought, _get a good look while you can_. Fuckers. While her demeanor soured, she knew part of it was jealousy. She missed the uniform, missed having a place, knowing who and what she was. Once Anderson stepped aboard the outer hatch closed behind him. The inner door reacted automatically, opening a few moments later to allow them to pass through.

It gave her time to distract herself with an errant thought about how their group managed to wander Omega in uniform without kicking up too much of a ruckus. Of course, enough credits could make the asteroid an attractive location to disappear, at least until someone with a larger bankroll started asking questions. Besides, with the influx of Cerberus activity in the sector, surely the Alliance presence had increased in reply.

With the hiss of the door, she ducked through and returned to the cockpit quickly, leaving Anderson to order his people to their stations. One took up a weapons station on the bridge, another went to the aft of the control center, and EDI directed the last two to engineering.

“Joker, good to see you again,” Anderson said as he finally joined them in the nose of the vessel.

“Wish I could say the same,” the pilot replied. Shepard kicked his chair and Moreau gave her a quick glare.

Anderson held his hand out to the former commander, shaking it slightly. “I understand. I wish the circumstances were different, too.”

No one said anything for a moment, then Joker swung the chair around. “You know what? It damn well could be. But you and the rest of the brass are too busy covering your asses to put them on the line for the people out here doing the job you won’t.”

“Joker,” Shepard called in a calm tone.

“No, this will be the second time they throw you under the bus rather than taking a stand.”

“Moreau!”

“Fine,” the pilot breathed in reply, facing the console again.

Shepard did not, would not apologize for anyone, especially Joker, and especially when he was voicing an opinion in the same ballpark as her own. “You ready to depart, Anderson?” she asked with a terse politeness.

“Not yet. Expecting one more soldier. He should be here soon.”

Feign nodded and got to her feet. “Might want to tell him to double time it. The longer we’re docked here the better the chance that someone catches sight, makes a call, and we have a hundred batarians at our door. I’ll be in my quarters.”

 

**-5-**

“Shepard, Anderson is on his way with a Lieutenant Vega,” EDI announced, her perfectly modulated voice rang clear as a bell inside Feign’s skull.

A grunt and a nod, it was all the response EDI would need. Plus, Shepard felt less and less like talking as the repercussions of her decision took firm hold. She turned in on herself more with the absence of each crewmate, now with the addition of the admiral and his Alliance squad, she just wanted no part of them. With the arrival of her own personal gaoler, she wanted nothing more than to keep to her own cell, as it seemed her quarters were likely to become, at least until they returned to Alliance space.

 _Of course, he_ _’d get some Alliance boot licker. What a better way to remind me of what I’m not? What I’m in for when I get back to Alliance space?_ Her jaw tightened and her lips thinned as she too roughly rammed the cleaning rod through the short barrel of the pistol. She laid it down a moment, angry at herself for her flare of temper. One damned babysitter was nothing to ruin a finely tuned pistol over.

She folded the cloth over the pistol that was still in pieces and pushed it aside in favor of her rifle. With that weapon she knew she would be able to keep her emotions in check, so she started disassembling it. By the time the door slid open and soft footfalls closed in on her, she was removing the finer pieces of the firing mechanism, which required all her attention. And it got it—Feign ignored the soft clearing of a throat and the shuffle of feet.

“Shepard, this is Lieutenant James Vega. Special Forces, temporarily assigned to your detail,” Anderson announced eventually.

“I have a detail now?” she scoffed, once the mechanism was broken down. “Well aren’t I coming up in the world?” Armed with a wisecrack meant for a buttoned down, class-A clown, she finally looked up. Swallowing it, she gave Vega a quick measuring glance, taking in the less than regulation uniform, the tattoos creeping up his neck and peeking from under his shirt sleeve, and the bruises and scratches marking his face and body. He was not the kind of marine she had been expecting.

He straightened under her gaze, and that old feeling that came with rank crept up again. It used to give her this warm feeling of pride, a sense of belonging. These days it just soured her disposition that much more; it worsened when her gaze focused on the tags dangling atop his T-shirt. _He probably doesn_ _’t even realize_ , Feign tried to reason with herself. That just seemed to pique her ire more sharply.

Once Anderson left, she tried to guide the lieutenant into small talk, choosing her questions and replies with the care of an interrogator. Then she picked apart every answer he gave as she posed the next question. But she tired of the game far more quickly as the unconventional marine remained at parade rest in her quarters.

She picked up a towel and scrubbed at her hands for a moment as she leaned back against the sofa, studying him again. She searched for a chink—he was taller than she was, thicker too, but she was certain all that bulk might slow him up. _Maybe he_ _’s easily rattled_ , she wondered. "So, whose daughter did you fuck to get this shit detail?" she asked, wearing a crooked smile as she tossed the towel onto the table. With a tilt of her head, she added, "Or son, if that's your gig?"

Vega shook his head at her and mimicked the mischievous grin on her face. "Nothing that bad. Just got into a little brawl with a few batarians."

Shepard nodded thoughtfully, but stopped abruptly, wondering just what kind of game Anderson was playing.  "How many is a few?"

"I don't know. Didn't really count. Like three, maybe."

"According to the media reports, Shepard there were at least six. Some reports claim more," EDI announced helpfully.

"Thanks, EDI," Feign said with a quick, light laugh. "But I think he was trying to be modest."

"Agreed. His record is stellar, Shepard. Several commendations. The recommendations of his superiors are numerous. Lieutenant Vega seems like an excellent example of Alliance military training."

Feign bit back the annoyance creeping up her throat. His record mirrored her own—notable history, highly recommended, and unorthodox. _What is Anderson playing at?_ She felt her jaw tighten and consciously let it drop open a hair to relax the muscles. "Hear that, Mr. Vega. The computer says that you're overqualified for your current position."

"James. And I’m not so sure about that, Commander," he replied.

Feign shot to her feet, certain this was all some kind of game, that she was the butt of some massive joke. She was no longer Alliance. Her jaw tightened up again, but she did not loosen it. _Is he daft?_ She glanced down at the table for a moment as she sidestepped the corner, giving herself a clearer path. Despite her visceral response to the way he referred to her, she opted for a more civil correction. "Civilians and the undead don't hold rank, Lieutenant Vega. I'm _not_ Alliance. And you should not be referring to me as ‘commander.’ I'm sure Anderson briefed you on that fact." Her tone was strained as she rounded the table. “If he failed to mention it, consider yourself duly informed.”

"I realize that, Commander—"

Red flooded her vision. Feign refused to be punchline of some private joke of his or Anderson’s. His inability to grant her request even a modicum of consideration snapped her composure like a twig. Even with only a few feet of space to work up the momentum she managed to pin him to the wall and get most of his weight off his feet. After securing one of his hands, she pressed her forearm against his windpipe “Who do you think you’re playing with here, _Lieutenant_?” The way she growled his rank made it sound like an insult. The threat came out loud and crystal clear. “I’ve never needed a rifle to kill a man, or anyone else that tried my patience.”

She felt him try to swallow beneath the pressure of her arm. He pressed against her shoulder with his free hand. “I’ve heard that,” Vega managed to say despite the tight force against his throat. He gasped at a breath, then came the reversal. The lieutenant pushed off the wall with one foot and sent the pair of them careening into the fish tank. Though he managed to get hold of her wrists, her retaliation was swift. A sickening crack resounded off the smooth surfaced of the loft with the snap of her head. And followed it up with a swift jab just below his ribs.

He telegraphed his right hook, which Feign blocked. His late protective move merely redirected her retaliatory punch toward his hip. The pair of them went on like this for some time, trading blows in a fight that was nothing short of a bar brawl in style. Neither of them kept polite rules of combat that might come up during regulated sparring; no, each of them took every dirty shot they could muster up and grabbed onto every sliver of advantage the other let them have.

Eventually it just ended. Shepard pushed herself off him, getting to her feet quickly before offering Vega a hand. He took it, but only pulled himself into a sitting position before backing himself against the wall. Feign hoped she proved her point, at the same time she could see that Vega was not just another Academy pushover—he would not be easy to bend. Though on this one issue she really hoped he would; the last thing she needed every time she turned around was one more reminder of what she was not, another reminder that she should be dead.

Ducking into the head, she wet a washcloth quickly, then detoured by her desk. “Water?”

“Sí. Gracias,” he replied. Vega caught the bottle she tossed at him and took a long swig.

Her fingers pinched his chin before he could lower his head again and tipped it to the side. She studied his face—his past was written on his skin, rugged, worn, scarred, inked. There was something in his eyes, something she recognized, something Shepard had known all her life—a mix of determination tinted by a hint of shame. For a moment, she thought to herself that she needed to check his service record, then she remembered that was not a possibility. Feign felt the need to say something, anything, “You need help setting that nose, or have you got it?”

His reply took more than a few beats. “I got it.”

Shepard loosed his chin and took a step back. Once her shoulders hit the wall, Feign slid down it. Opening her own bottle, she noticed the skinned knuckles on her hands, the dots and smears of blood already dried. It would not scar, though a part of her wished it would. The only scars that seemed to take hold on her body now were the ones that reminded her she was only still around because of an egotistical bastard’s need to play god with her death.

“You’re going to want to have Chakwas take a look at that cut above your eye.” Feign lifted the bottle to her lips and took a long drink. She looked away as he worked on his nose. “Might scar,” she mumbled from behind her hand as she watched the lone surviving fish make his round around the tank. The tinkling ring of a bell from the terrarium on the shelf above her, announced Rage’s renewed interest. The space hamster never was a fan of a lot of physical activity, and their fight likely left her space hamster cowering in his hidey-hole. The gentle ringing starkly contrasted the cracking sound—and wincing—that came with the lieutenant’s action. She winced in reply, well, sympathy. She had been there before.

“I don’t know. Always heard scars are sexy,” he finally said.

“That explains, the—” she gestured at her own face, mimicking the scar that crossed his cheek.

“Yeah, well, sometimes that happens in our line of work,” he laughed from behind the washcloth that currently soaked up the gush of new blood. Sometimes putting it back could be worse than getting it knocked out of place, at least in her experience.

“ _Your_ line of work,” she corrected.

Vega opened his mouth, then shook his head the slightest bit.

She stared at him, holding his steady gaze, until she could not any longer. He looked at her like she was someone she did not know anymore. It left her craving distance from him, from the feelings and questions he stirred up about who she was, had been, and could be. “I should probably grab a shower,” Feign said as she got to her feet, offering him a slightly awkward nod.

“Yes, ma’am,” he replied.

She chose not to offer to shake his hand or exchange any other pleasantry, instead she just turned the corner and cleared the few steps to the bathroom, untucking her shirt as she went. She did toss the blood splattered shirt in the corner of the bathroom, but turned on the sink instead after she heard the exterior door of her quarters close. Feign rinsed her hands under the warm water and studied her face. The lieutenant kept to body shots mostly in their little brawl, though her hair was mussed. Her hand slid through the field of white and pink, savoring the tenderness of her scalp there where he had yanked. Her eyes fluttered closed as the pain hovered there at the cusp of enjoyable.

 

**-6-**

Her jailer proved less of a cliché than she pictured when they met. He still called her commander, which still made her bristle, but he seemed just as out of place as she felt. He never said as much but she got the impression there was something behind that empty look that darkened his brown eyes from time to time. Her curiosity did not beat out her desire to keep her distance from everyone on the trip back.

Being incarcerated on her own ship unsettled Feign, but she managed to escape the inevitable claustrophobia of being cooped up in the loft by keeping up with certain routines. Going down to the gym always helped clear her head—the exertion, the space, and her pulse thumping in her ears all tended to settle her nerves. And since the incident in the Bahak System, her nerves had stayed on a razor’s edge that seemed to sharpen with every passing day.

When she made her way down to the gym, the move became habitual. Before the _Normandy_ emptied of her crew, Feign tended to hack the AI’s access to the ship’s gym. Feign did it with the intention of securing a stroke of privacy. It was the one thing EDI seemed to acknowledge and recognize from the outset of their mission, even prior to her self-awareness.

After some quick stretches, Feign got down to it, weighting the bar then lying down on the bench for the presses. She knew her time alone was limited; whenever she wandered off before he appeared at her door, Lieutenant Vega always managed to locate her, even despite his lack of familiarity with the ship. Even when she felt it should be obvious that she preferred to be alone, he always popped up.

Rather quickly she found a steady rhythm and her breathing matched the controlled motion of her arms, producing a slow, rhythmic, almost meditative effect. She lost herself in the pace, concentrating on the lowering and raising of the bar; then the inhale and exhale of every breath in precise measure. The time floated away. By the time she heard the soft swish of the door, Feign was only marginally aware of her repetition count. With his arrival, she started counting again and ignored him. Lieutenant Vega made that easier by saying nothing; he seemed to take his job as jailor very seriously.

Of course, there were times when she wondered about that. He would not let her slip away, even though there were only so many places she could wander on the _Normandy_. Even so, there was no way off the vessel. Well, she thought, I could take the shuttle, but with the route that Joker’s taking that would be nothing more than a survival exercise. Plus, it would wind up a short-lived escape attempt, at least with her current standing in the galaxy.

From time to time, when Vega located her, he would let the whole stoic and distant act slip. Sometimes he would just study her, as if he was trying to figure out who she was and what happened to the Commander Shepard he had seen in the vids. Of course, sometimes she stared at her own reflection wondering the same thing.

She shook the thought out of her head and continued her modified count of her repetitions. Despite the fact she knew she was far off, Feign pushed through the burn in her muscles. Other times she and Vega bantered, like two Marines heading to or coming back from leave on a transport. It could be a casual, relaxed, and easy conversation, but there were times when those chats just stopped when that contrite look slipped into his dark umber gaze. Usually when mention of the past came up at all, even the distant past, the lieutenant’s lips would tighten and thin, then his shoulders would slide back and her gaoler returned in full force.

“Here I thought I gave you the slip,” she teased on an exhale as she pressed the weighted bar away from her chest.

“I knew you couldn’t go far,” Vega chimed back with an almost playful tone.

 _It was a good day for conversation_ , she gathered from his reply. So Feign continued along the same vein. “True enough. So, if you knew I was still on the ship, why come looking?”

When she heard the shift of metal, Feign glanced over at him, watched him get into position for the simple arm curls. Then his eyes flicked back in her direction. There always felt like there was something lurking in the way he looked at her, sometimes she could not read it, but this time it was clear. His eyes moved slowly, possibly following the swirls of ink that climbed up her leg and beneath her shorts only to peek above the low, folded waistband.

“I’m supposed to be keeping an eye on you. If I can’t keep track of you onboard a frigate, how do you think the brass will take that?”

She shrugged and did another few reps in silence, tightening and tensing muscles that she did not need to just to see if she could throw him. Shepard could not be certain of her success or failure, so after nearly a minute she placed the bar back into the cradle.

“Don’t know. Don’t care,” she said as she rolled into a sitting position that left her straddling the bench. “But you seem to do a better job than most of keeping your eye on the target.” Feign pressed her hands against the bench and leaned forward. Her movements were as calculated in that moment as they were in any fight, on any battlefield, that’s how she approached most things. The action squeezed her breasts together beneath the loose, cropped tank top to create a bit more cleavage than her sports bra typically allowed for. “See anything you like?”

The smooth movement of his arm, curling the weight toward his shoulder, stuttered and his eyes jumped upward a few inches to hers.

Shepard set her tattooed leg on the bench, making a neat little triangle as she ran her hand along some of the lines of ink on her inner thigh. “I mean this piece alone took several sittings.” She watched him, when her index finger caught the hem of her shorts. “And it follows the line of my hip perfectly. I was quite pleased with the artist’s attention to detail.”

“They did a good job,” he replied, looking away for a moment as he tried to smooth out the motion of his rep before looking at her again. “I’m guessing that’s all new work.”

“Most of it, at least as far as acreage is concerned.” She turned on the bench, taking a less provocative pose.

He just nodded, grinning knowingly, but at least she held his gaze again.

Feign pushed herself off the bench, standing and stretching her arms over her head before dropping them to her sides again. “I did have some older ones redone though,” she added, crossing the few feet between their benches. Her smile took on a predatory twist when she noticed him push himself back against the incline of the bench he sat upon. Shepard intentionally did not keep a polite buffer of personal space as she set her hand on his thigh and leaned her shoulder toward him. Her finger tugged at the neck of her shirt to show off the hollow there near her shoulder and beneath her collar bone. “If you look close you can see the red, it’s not easy to spot,” she noted, running her finger beneath the curve of her own name.

“Is the one on your spine new?” he asked, his warm eyes rising to hers.

She watched the movement of his Adam’s apple, though she did not hear him swallow. “Yeah,” she answered with no explanation. “Why want another look?” With the taunt, she shifted closer, rather than moving away, as if to show him.

His reply caught her off guard, even though it was precisely what she was fishing for. It was just like the fight when they met—fast, no holds barred. Vega’s kiss was rough and greedy. Neither of them pulled any punches. When his knee pressed against her thigh, Feign straddled his leg and her hand moved upward to press over his fly. He groaned into her mouth and she did not hold back the grin before threading her fingers into his hair to guide his lips to hers again. Calloused fingers pulled up her bra teasing at her breasts with an unexpected gentleness. That tenderness broke her concentration; it was unexpected, unwelcome.

Feign did not want sweet. She stepped back and grabbed him by his belt coaxing him to his feet and toward a thin table dotted with a few towels. Once he was following, she let go of his waistband and yanked her top and bra off in one swift movement, then she turned and showed him the tattoo that ran the length of her spine, she shimmied her waistband lower on her hips to make sure he got the entire picture as the intricate pattern ran from the base of her skull to the just past her tailbone.

A sigh escaped her lips when the warmth of him engulfed her—his bare chest against her back, one thick arm wrapping around her ribs and grabbing one breast in a tight, rough grip. Her hips rolled against his when that other hand displaced her own. Whereas she had been inching her shorts down, Vega harbored no patience for the reveal. Then his fingers scratched back up the top of her thigh, his hand pressing between her legs and finding her clit without a micron of pretense.

Feign went with it for a moment, rolling her hips with the rough rubbing. He leaned against her, fingers pushing further. Feign retaliated. Her body moved with the rhythm set by his hands, but still she slipped her hands behind her and between them. Her enjoyment took precedence over dexterity for a moment, but the struggle against his belt and the fastenings of his pants were no match for the determined woman. She pushed away cotton in search of searing silk, and when she wrapped her hand around her prize, Vega’s mouth released her skin, exhaling an animalistic moan against her neck.

Her head turned and found his mouth. “Fuck me,” she ordered, then bit his bottom lip.

The hand around her body shifted and pressed forcefully against her spine. She got her hands in front of her and caught herself before her body slammed against the table, allowing her to soften the landing a hair; still, a sting buzzed through her skin. She growled low when a thick hand tightened at the back of her neck, squeezing in a pleasing way. Her hips shifted against his, but the sensation she was looking for gave way to another, something more gentle.

When his other hand smoothed up then down her spine, fingers following her ink-covered Cerberus scars, time seemed to slow in that instant and she wondered if all this might be a tease of his own design. She wrapped her mind around the swirling moment of his scarred fingers as they crept down her spine.

Vega broke her reverie with a quick kick to the inside of her right heel. She only needed the one to shift her legs open. While she shifted, the jangle of his belt rang off the metal surfaces in the room. His thighs brushed the back of hers for barely a heartbeat. In the next, Feign heaved a sigh as he guided the tip of his cock over her, from clit to slit, repeatedly. The sigh turned rough, to a growl as she moved her body to find an inviting position for him to enter her. She did not want to play games. Each time he retreated, the sound took on a deeper note of hunger.

For all she knew, Vega understood the meaning in the rumble in her chest. She cried out when he finally pressed into the cant of her hips. He gave neither of them a moment to adjust; instead, he fell into a fierce, punishing rhythm. The sensation of his fingers digging into the skin on her hip and her neck left Feign reeling, as he yanked her back against every thrust of his hips which sent a completely different spark through her body. It went longer than she anticipated from the way it started.

His grip on her neck eased up and Feign arched upward; Vega’s hand moved from her shoulder to circle the front of her neck and pull her body against his. That brought his mouth back to the spot just beneath her ear. She heard every note of each harsh breath and gravelly growl. Rough fingertips returned to her clit, with needy, commanding circles. She had been close and his pace threatened to launch her past her peak, which she wanted as much as he seemed to.

Feign ran her hand over his arm toward the hand on her throat. Then laid her hand neatly over his and squeezed gently in an unspoken command. If he had not taken the hint, she would have done it herself, but thankfully Vega figured out what she wanted. His hand tightened and she held her breath. The combination of it all sent her soaring. She came ahead of him, pushing her ass back against him for more.

As she started to come down, her fingers tugged at his wrist, loosening his clench on her throat as a calmer sensation uncurled in her limbs. The release of her throat did nothing to halt the rotation of his fingers around her clit or the punishing snap of his hips. Vega still held her body close and his hand went to her shoulder, pulling downward with each upward thrust. At least, not until his teeth clamped down on her shoulder and his rhythm broke with a series of grunts and sharper, lingering thrusts. She moaned along with him, the sharp sting of his teeth stealing her breath.

Feign’s gaze rose to the mirror halfway across the room from them. Their skin glistened sickeningly in the harsh light. Even so, she instantly regretted not having watched Vega fuck her. His dark eyes found hers in the mirror, and he seemed to have only realized its presence as well. While her features were relaxed in a pleasurable moment of afterglow, Vega wore a starkly different look. His eyes widened and jaw fell a bit slack. It could have been surprise or something along that line. Then in an instant Feign’s warm, full sensation was ripped away and the rough, thick hands were gone. She turned and watched the lieutenant as he backed away from her. It was as if he suddenly realized he was late for inspection or something; he yanked up his trousers, fastening them quickly, and struggling for a moment with his belt.

It was not the first time a man banged her and realized she was not who he thought she was. Feign leaned there, bare hips against the table as she watched him. When he looked at her again, he looked away quickly, as if her still being naked surprised him. For a moment she considered leaving the gym just as she was, then thought better of it. While her crew would have said nothing, Feign knew better than to taunt the Alliance crew in such a manner. So she relocated her top, pulling on only the loose shirt, before stepping back into her shorts. She balled up her bra in her hands and fished his T-shirt off the weight rack. Feign dangled his lost piece of clothing on the end of one finger as she strode toward him.

“Sure you don’t want to shower first?” she offered, just in an effort to try and fluster him.

He looked up at her like he had been caught red-handed by Admiral Anderson himself—wide-eyes and an unmistakable look of uncertainty. Or maybe that was regret. _Probably regret_ , she figured. Her eyes went toward the door a few feet from the entrance, which housed the equivalent of a locker room with just enough space for a handful of shower heads, latrines, and a few lockers.

“No, I’m good.” He snatched the shirt off her finger and headed toward the door, pushing his arms into the sleeves.

Men running out after sex was not something new for Feign. She had been in this position more times than she could count. Told herself it was easier this way. _Better than him wanting to cuddle on the damn mats,_ she told herself.

Vega stopped at the door.

“You forget something?” Feign teased when she noticed him.

He hit the control on the door and gestured for her to join him. With a smirk, she complied, stopping right in front of him.

“What? You want to try the elevator next?” she purred, dragging her down the center of his chest. She did not wait for his answer. Likely it would have been a silent glance away. Regret was easy to read.

Feign turned and made her way toward the lift. The lieutenant never responded; he just followed her across the bay and up to the loft. On the ride up, Vega kept as much physical space between them as the claustrophobic space allowed, while the psychological distance moved toward canyon-like proportions.

 

**-7-**

The stars twinkled beyond the window of the port observation deck. Feign used to come here because Kasumi could always make her laugh, could always pull her out of her own head and put her in a better mood. Furniture and a few old books the thief must have left intentionally were all that remained. Shepard figured it must have been Kasumi’s way of trying to change her opinion on the musty antiques, she thought, as she flipped through one, just to hear the sound of fluttering pages.

When the door opened, she ignored it. There was only one person it would be, and that was only because he felt some sort of obligation to be her shadow. Most of the time the lieutenant could make himself almost invisible, despite his formidable size. But, for some reason, not at that moment, when she needed precisely that.

Every even breath he took sounded as if it was taken right beside her ear. Even the sound of his sigh amplified in her head. Her gray eyes shot toward him for a moment with the intention of returning to the stars beyond the glass, but she could not look away. Her brow narrowed when he took a step and leaned his thick hands on the back of the sofa.

“I’m sorry, Commander,” he announced out of the blue.

“Ugh,” she groaned and tossed the book on the coffee table. “Why can’t you grasp this? I am _not_ Commander Shepard. Commander Shepard died on the Normandy … the Alliance’s Normandy,” she corrected as she shot to her feet. “I’m just some fucked up science project, Vega.”

Vega straightened a bit, but said nothing.

“I’m a civilian, Vega. A terrorist, if you believe what the media has to say.”

“I don’t.”

Shepard cracked a hint of a smile. “Doesn’t matter. I’m not Alliance.”

“Separation papers?”

“Excuse me?”

“Show me your separation papers.”

Feign narrowed her eyes at him. “You mean my fucking death certificate.”

HIs lips thinned as he shook his head. “No good. You’re not dead. Separations papers are the only valid option.”

“You are so full of shit.”

“That may be, Commander, but as far as I’m concerned …”

“Do you just need the distance?”

“Come again?” Vega asked.

“Maybe, but we’re a little over dressed, don’t you think?”

His demeanor shifted instantly as his posture stiffened and the muscles across his chest and in his shoulders tightened.

“I’m not Alliance. I’m not Cerberus. I’m just me. Just Feign. That’s it? That’s all you get. I understand that to you and other people I was Alliance. I was a Spectre. But that’s the keyword Vega—was,” she said as she pushed away from the glass.

The truth of what she said crept up on even her and she needed to get away from it. As if walking across the room toward him would shake off reality somehow. Throwing a swish into her hips, she approached the tall marine. When she reached him, her fingers traced the chain of his tags, then hooked it and pulled slowly, barely budging Vega.

Without a word, he plucked his tags out of her hand and straightened.

Feign watched his reply with care. She knew the reaction— _all_ business. Inhaling and exhaling a calm breath, she flipped a switch of her own as she let him regain his scant distance and sense of composure, then said, “Look, I get it. Don’t worry, when we get to Earth, I’ll talk to Anderson about letting you out of this dog detail.”

“What are you talking about?” he asked, narrowing his umber gaze on her.

Feign leaned her hip against the back of the sofa, pulling her knee up and hooking the heel of her boot on the arm rest behind her. “You’re way over-trained for babysitting duty. I probably don’t have any pull, but even so, Anderson might get the combat gods to shine down on you again.”

“No, I’ve got orders. I’m heading your detail, Commander.”

“Tā mā de. And, what? You’re worried Anderson will find out about our little hand-to-hand session in the gym, perhaps?” she guessed, turning away from him and walking back toward the window. “Don’t. It’s not his business.” Even she could hear the twinge of disappointment in her voice.

She enjoyed James, especially the way he reacted to her. It was like fighting, only better because she got an orgasm out of it—sex with James reminded her what it felt like to be human. Reminded her of the ecstatic highs and, now, the disappointing lows.

Her eyes shot to the hand that closed around her upper arm, then up at him when he yanked her around. His mouth on hers silenced her impending rant and her thoughts. He kissed her with an intensity that made her feel like oxygen.

“I don’t give a damn about that, Feign,” he whispered against her mouth when he finally broke the kiss. His hand held tight to the back of her neck, keeping her close. His lips brushed hers with every word, making her want him to keep talking. Then as suddenly as he grabbed her, he let go. Taking a step back as his shoulders fell and slipped back, squaring enough to demonstrate that he had shifted gears on her, again. “It’s my duty, my assignment. I’m not going to abandon it.”

When he looked at her, there was something unreadable there. Or perhaps it was just foreign to her, she thought, though still, it bore an eerie familiarity Feign could not quite place. So much so that she forced herself to turn away from him.

“Understandable. Just figured you had better opportunities looming.”

“Not at the moment, Commander.”

“James, I really wish you’d stop calling me that,” she breathed, her frustration clear.

When she glanced over her shoulder at him, he gave her a boyish grin and a wink. Feign just shook her head. _Stubborn jarhead_ , she thought, dreading the lingering possibility that he would keep calling her by a rank she did not possess—a rank that just reminded her of all the things she no longer was.

 

[Refractions by bloomingcnidarians](http://bloomingcnidarians.tumblr.com/post/146602702978/my-piece-for-the-mebb-collaboration-with)

**-8-**

Arcturus Station resembled a hive. Ships moved to and fro like worker drones each doing its part to keep the galactic seat of the Human Systems Alliance alive and thriving.

“Thank you, Arcturus Control,” Joker said in a tone that felt too authoritative to the sharp-tongued pilot Feign knew. “Normandy cr--. Normandy,” he corrected, reminding Feign as well that their ship now only held strangers, “prepare for relay.”

Those words confirmed Feign’s suspicions. The Normandy’s destination lay deeper in human-controlled territory—the Sol System, Earth, to be specific. Her shoulders tightened, pulling forward. Feign stood right behind Joker, her hands resting on the top of his chair. _Tactically, it made the most sense_ , she reasoned. When it came right down to it, Earth was the most secure human locale. There were fewer aliens on Earth, and the human home system was farther removed than the galactic hub at Arcturus where most of the visitors—political, professional, and personal—stopped. There they could get a taste of Earth and humanity without having to make that final jump.

Feign could always read between the lines. Earth never came up in conversation with Anderson, but surely Hackett’s orders dictated this. Maybe Joker, Garrus, and the others had foreseen this. It would be easier to bury her on Earth; the rest of the galaxy would be less likely to take note of what was happening since her trial would take place far from galactic view. She took a deep breath and steeled herself. _It was my choice. Besides, you might be reading too much into it, Feign,_ she told herself.

Maybe it was merely a precaution. She heard the reports, knew the Batarians were pissed. The shouts for her head filled every microphone a Batarian leader could get near. Likely, the Hegemony placed a price on her head, preferably on a spike.

Joker’s voice filled the cockpit as he announced the steps and readings for the record, out of habit. Her eyes tracked the looming shell of the Arcturus Station as they passed, then came to focus on the glowing orb before them. The relay hung there in the black sea, beckoning her like the ancient lighthouses of old, those guides to safe harbor. It was the last barrier between her and Earth. Her hands tightened on the back of the pilot’s chair— _how long had it really been?_

 _Luna Base_ , she remembered. That’s the last time she had been in the Sol System.

Her eyes fell to watch the well-practiced choreography of Joker’s fingers over the console. He really was the best pilot in the Alliance, _the galaxy_ , she corrected almost instantly. She hated to think it, but the closer they got to the relay the more certain she became that this was their last cruise. Earth would be their last port together.

The first time she left the human homeworld, she told herself she did not want to go back. There was nothing there for her. Earth never felt like home to her; the Normandy had been the only place to feel like what she imagined home could be. But now, she was giving it up and putting herself in the line of fire again.

Jack’s offer and Zaeed’s reasonable explanation played in her head. Feign’s stance straightened in response to the mere idea of running; she squared her shoulders, mentally arming herself for the battle to come. _No, no more running_. She made her choice and she would see it through. Even if she could not earn her identity back, even if she wound up red mist on a concrete wall, she would keep her word, she reminded herself over and over as the ship neared the relay. She would take the hit, just as she told Hackett she would do.

“Commander,” James said in greeting.

Her gray eyes darted toward him, narrowed and sharp, her mouth pursed into a hard line that made her jaw and cheeks ache. Out of the corner of her eye, Shepard noticed Joker had a similar reaction, head snapping right before returning to his instruments. That was when James leaned casually on the other chair, his gaze moved with haste—corridor, AI, Joker, then back to her. He gave her a wink and a tiny smile, which widened when his eyes moved over her. He took a breath and let his shoulders fall in a relaxed way, Feign followed his lead and mimicked the movement, savoring the feeling of a long, slow breath expanding her chest. As she exhaled some of the tightness in her body flowed out of her, letting her shoulders fall into a bit more natural position.

“Last chance to call this off, Shepard,” Joker offered, without shifting his attention.

“You know I handed this vessel over to the Alliance.”

“Yeah, but I don’t work for them anymore,” Joker reminded. “I work with you.”

“I could handle the jump,” EDI injected.

“Shut up, EDI.” Joker turned his head and glanced up at Shepard. “Give me the word, Shepard.”

Feign could not hold back a smile, though she tried to keep the rest of her emotional reaction under control. Her nerves tingled and her stomach felt sick—it was worse than any pre-combat jitters she ever experienced. “I have to go back. Do it, Joker,” she said, reaching over and patting his shoulder once. It was a gentle gesture, but brimming with the appreciation she had for the man who pulled her out of more scrapes than she could count.

He gave her a simple nod.

Her eyes closed when she felt the shift in pressure that preceded a jump. She savored every flicker, every sensation wondering if it would be the last time she felt that kind of exhilaration. When her eyes opened, she glanced to her right and noticed James looking at her, brow knitted as he leaned there. With footfalls closing in on the bridge, he ripped his gaze from her, straightening and mimicking her stance.

“There it is. Nice work, Joker,” Anderson noted.

The quartet stood there silently as the ship closed in on the Earth. Feign ignored the occasional chatter between the Admiral and the Alliance Command on Earth. She just stared at that blue-green ball, oblivious to her white-knuckled grip. _There was no turning back now_.


End file.
